


Luckless

by orichrys



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: F/M, Luckless, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, evysun, orichrys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-23 08:02:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6110264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orichrys/pseuds/orichrys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chance causes Fischer to recognize Ariadne as "the girl from a dream". She finds herself planning with Eames and Arthur on how to dissuade the heir from further interest in her, and finds that navigating the world of flirtation is harder than building a dreamscape. But Ariadne was always a quick learner and our favorite Point Man realizes he isn't helping just because it's his job.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Prologue**

Robert Fischer had always considered himself a bit of an idealist.

He had never been as hard as his father Maurice or as cutthroat as his Godfather. He grew up in an admittedly sheltered lifestyle, which would be an accurate description to any heir to the Fischer fortune. So when he reached Los Angeles alongside his father’s coffin, perhaps his idealism had inspired the catharsis he was feeling. A dream that changed everything. His father had indeed been a hard man, but also a loving one. He had just never seen it until it was too late.

Within a few months Robert had found himself dismantling the tyranny of the Fischer Company’s energy monopoly in favor of starting a business of his own.

One that would redeem himself for trying so hard to follow in his father’s footsteps, when all along… Maurice had wanted his son to create for himself.

_One that would make his father proud._

He remembered explaining his resolution to his baffled godfather, the most assertive, and destructive, decision for the company ever made. Browning had found himself distraught that he could do nothing against, what he perceived as, the biggest mistake his godson could make in his life. But Robert Fischer was unrelenting, convinced that this is what he wanted.

It was five months after his father’s funeral that Robert found himself in Paris, he had been starting some contacts with some growing French energy companies when he had walked past a particular corner bistro in the bustling city. A girl sitting in the café tables outside made him freeze.

Curling, chestnut hair framed a delicate face. She was tugging on a paisley scarf that hung loosely around her neck as she sat perusing a daunting architecture book, her coffee laid forgotten on the table.

A sense of intense déjà vu hit him.

_The violent tendrils of brown hair whip around a kind face, deep concerning brown eyes greet him after being blindfolded for so long. Skyscrapers crumble around them and he is fixated by the urgency of her gaze._

_“Are you okay?”_

The recollection is wildly vivid. He ogles the girl at the bistro and strides forward to sit down at her table. He is aware that this is forward, and yet, he is drawn to this girl who so resembles his supposed savior in a half-forgotten dream.

She looks up, her eyes widen in panic. He doesn’t mean to alarm her, and he instantly feels guilty. However the familiar rich colors of her dark brown eyes confirm his suspicions. A smile tugs on his lips, and he finds himself feeling like he has stumbled upon a beloved friend that he hadn’t realized he had forgotten until now.

“I’m so sorry. I know this must seem so strange to you.” He doesn’t know what has come over himself, but the familiarity of her face won’t let him walk away.

“But I swear I’ve seen you _somewhere_ …” He chuckles and the words tumble out of his mouth.

“Like something out of a dream.”


	2. Encounters

**Encounters**

Ariadne had prepared herself for the necessary absence of contact from the team she had grown so close to. It had been three months and she had enough sensibility to carry on with her life. After going through Limbo, after seeing what dream-sharing had done to Cobb, she knew better than to appease the addicting call of the dreamscape.

Or at least she thought she did.

Sketching on creased and worn moleskines didn’t compare to seeing ideas bloom before her eyes in real time.

Miles had noticed the signs in her, the ones that she was yearning to ignore but could not. That reality could no longer suffice as the canvas of her creations. It was with great resignation and guilt that he found himself sympathizing with his student, eventually driving him to call her to his office one day to show her the silver briefcase of the PASIV that he kept locked in his cabinet. The same machine that he had once taught Cobb and Mal with their first encounter in dream-sharing.

She spent the next two months letting her designs run wild with her. Her mazes becoming so complex and seamless, it made the Fischer layouts look tame.

It seemed too good to be true. To have the world of dreams at her disposal once again, to be immersed in pure creation, she had been kidding herself if she had ever believed she could live without it. She had always loved challenges, and breaking the laws of physics suited her well.

The further she immersed herself in the dreamscape, the more she faced the nostalgia of their team. Cobb’s purposeful charisma, Eames’ snarky commentary, even Yusuf and Saito had become unpredicted familiars.

And Arthur.

He had shown her the ropes, his constant patience and guidance making all of this possible. She tried her best to stuff away the tiny part of herself that ached for the familiarity of him… ** _no_** she corrected, for _all_ of them.

On a particular evening after returning from a late night spent in Miles’ office with the PASIV, she had been on her way to her apartment when she saw the familiar disheveled figure of Eames. He stood at the front of the apartment lobby, looking up from his leaning position against the wall, a smile swathed across his face. He had just been passing through Paris and decided to look her up. She warmed at the gesture, she wouldn’t admit it, but seeing someone from the job eased her suspicions that they had forgotten all about her. And that what they had achieved together had been real.

He said that he would be staying until tomorrow and maybe they could meet up since he was “bloody tired from leaning on the wall waiting for her into the wee hours of the night” and how he had “forgotten the owlish sleeping schedule of uni life”. She had heartily agreed before they parted ways for the night, secretly bursting with curiosity to ask what everyone had been up to the past months.

She arrived the next day early to their meeting location, a small corner bistro that they had frequented on occasion during the Fischer job. Determined to be productive she hovers above one of her textbooks, as she kills the time. The weight of another body sits in the seat across from her.

 _‘Eames, early? How much has changed in the past five months?_ ’ she muses, a smile tugging at her lips but falling just as quickly when she looks up.

Her eyes widen, her heart drops.

She had welcomed dream-sharing back into her life. She had welcomed the presence of Eames, a reminder of the people she missed. She had taken them as good omens, but she was in no way prepared to see Robert Fischer sit across from her.

Panic. Dread. Fear. Confusion.

Multiple emotions flit across her mind as her heart quickens in ridiculously loud thumps that seem intent on betraying the calmness she is trying to portray.

He regards her like an old familiar, a surge of warmth and curiosity seeping into his voice.

_“I’m so sorry. I know this must seem so strange to you… But I swear I’ve seen you somewhere…”_

_“Like something out of a dream.”_

His eyes are bright and genuinely regarding her, if she isn’t already stricken with surprise she certainly is floored now.

He has the decency to realize how cheesy that sounds and started rubbing his neck self-consciously giving Ariadne a moment to think.

_‘There’s no possible way he could recognize me… Arthur never mentioned the potential of being recognizable to the mark once conscious, right? Then again… I wasn’t supposed to ever see him again… What the **hell** is going on?’_

She tries to recover from her shock, and mask her unease. She manages a meek smile and feigns disinterest in the encounter.

“I-I have no idea who you are… sorry.” The stuttered words sound thin and weak coming from her lips but Fischer seems too enthralled with his apparent recognition of her to be suspicious.

“I’m sorry. I swear I don’t do this often… or ever.” He appears embarrassed but looks back up to stare at her eyes as if he found confirmation by looking at them.

He must see traces of the discomfort in her expression, but he persists.

He has no idea. Has no idea that she knows so much more than what he knows of himself.

“Let me start over.” He starts again valiantly. “Could I offer to buy you another cup of coffee?” He gestures to her cold cup on the table.

_‘Run. Get the hell out of here, find Eames…’_

She doesn’t think that she can cover the edge in her voice.

“I was just leaving actually…” She gets up in a hurry, the chair scraping gratingly against the floor. He follows suit, intent to stall her from disappearing.

“I didn’t mean to scare you. I know I’m a complete stranger, it’s just that… that… I swear I’ve seen you around _somewhere_ before.” His voice is urgent and sincere and it only makes Ariadne feel guilt on top of fresh terror.

“Please, at least let me know your name?” He throws her a charming smile. Undoubtedly something he has used multiple times to win a girl’s heart over in the past.

“I don’t give my names to strangers.” The words sounding childish falling from her mouth.

She tries to fake a dismissive glance but that’s all the bravery she can conjure at the moment, she turns away from him intent on getting as far away as possible.

Her luck takes a turn for the worse.

“Ariadne. I know I’m late, but no need to run off-“

Eames’ timing couldn’t be any worse. Fischer turns around at his voice and Eames realizes the situation in a flash, but he has had more experience with surprises. He recovers the best he can from the lapse, and does what he does best: he improvises.

“And who’s this bloke, love?” he glances toward Ariadne in faux-accusatory glare that he hopes she can read the meaning behind.

She does, and tries her best to play along. _Trying,_ being the key word.

“No one. Just some guy.” She tries to act standoffish and unimpressed as she strides to Eames’ side.

“Oh is this… your boyfriend.” Fischer inquires, giving Eames’ appearance a dismissive once-over.

Ariadne pictures herself and Eames making dewy eyes at one another, and forgets herself for a moment.

“ _What…_ No. I’m not…”

_Shit._

“I mean… I’m not _… not interested_.” She finishes lamely and flees the scene with Eames in tow.

They round a corner before Fischer can protest. She doesn’t realize that she had been practically running until Eames’ hand is on her shoulder and finally stops her a few blocks away from the bistro grabbing her and turning her around.

“What the hell was _that_?”

“You think I know! I was… I didn’t…”

They both pause to catch their breaths, the silence seeming to suffice as they both mull over the situation.

Eames lets out a bit of a desperate laugh as he regains some of his composure, pulling out his cell phone. He begins to punch some numbers as he turns to her.

“Seriously darling, all the men in the world and you have to attract the _one_ that you should stay the hell away from.” She tries to take his teasing as a sign of comforting her, but she still can’t cover her mortification.

“Don’t worry; it seems that fate is just pulling your leg. He’s oblivious and harmless.”

“You don’t understand.” She’s frustrated and beating herself up that she didn’t handle the situation elegantly at all. And that Eames is taking all this lightly.

“He said he recognized me from **_a dream_.”**

The smile on his face falters, the phone at his ear stops ringing and the line is connected.

“Get your ass down to Paris. We’ve got a bit of a situation.” After a brief pause, Eames presses the end call button, shoving his phone in his jacket pocket before continuing to walk her to his hotel.

“Who was that?” She already knew the answer.

“Arthur. Tying up loose ends is his area of expertise.”

“Don’t worry love, the poor bloke looked like he had no idea who you really were. We just have to make sure it stays that way.” He flashes what should be a reassuring smile, but Ariadne can see the tenseness behind his eyes.

A few hours later, a knock raps against the door of Eames’ hotel suite. Ariadne glances from her seat on the bed as Eames opens it to reveal a familiar figure. He is immaculate as always in a three piece suit and slicked hair, inviting himself in.

“Eames you better have a goddamn good reason for dragging me out here with no explana-“

He stops mid-sentence as he sees Ariadne sitting on the bed. His frustration seems to dissipate immediately, replaced with a flash of curiosity and then seriousness. He is all business.

“What happened?”

“Surely you don’t think I’d call you for just a friendly visit.” Eames takes advantage of Arthur’s momentary confusion.

“Especially, since we _already_ have had the pleasure of one from a rather oblivious **_Robert Fischer_**.”

The Point Man’s eyes flash from Eames to Ariadne.

“You’re serious?” He sits down across from Ariadne. As he pulls off his jacket and rolls his sleeves. Tell-tale signs that his mind is turning as he prepares to work.

“At first I thought it might be just coincidence, but then he was really persistent... and he said something about… a dream, and I want to believe it’s just a bad line but…” She’s trying to explain but several thoughts are competing in her head.

_‘Honestly, the odds’_

“Sounds like he’s a bit old-fashioned, really, I thought fate and destiny was something of a female fancy…” Eames paces back and forth across the hotel room. It’s difficult to tell if he is either stressed or amused, as he flips his totem between his fingers.

Arthur looks at Ariadne imploringly, she feels like she can see the concern in his eyes. Immediately she feels guilty.

_‘Of course he’s concerned. This accidental meeting could put everyone in jeopardy.’_

Her heart squeezes as she thinks of Cobb and his kids.

She starts over. And tries to recount her meeting with Fischer to Arthur level-headedly. She can’t help but relax as he sees Arthur’s features begin to loosen considerably after she explained the conversation.

Arthur exhales slowly.

“Okay. From what it sounds like, he doesn’t know anything about you…” Arthur begins to deduce.

“Other than my name.” She corrects.

“Other than…You told him?” His head snaps up to look at her in surprise.

Eames stops pacing to turn to him. A bit of a sheepish grin crawls onto his face, as if he knew this part of the conversation was to come.

“I did. I didn’t recognize him from behind before I called out to her.”

Arthur casts a distinctly irritated glare toward the Brit’s direction.

“It’s just my name. How much can he find out?” she starts to regain hope on the situation.

Really, if she thought about it, it wasn’t that bad. What were the chances she’d bump into him again?

“If we’re lucky, he won’t care to dig anything up. But if he wanted to… well. Your name is rather… unique.” A tight smile pulls the corner of the point man’s lips as he tries to cushion his words.

“Eames and I will stick around Paris the next couple of days, and do a bit of digging. Continue doing whatever you’re doing; go to classes, and everything. If he contacts you within the next two weeks, then call. Other than that we might have nothing to worry about.” He sits back in his chair comfortably.

“If anything, you tell him you’re seeing someone… no worries, right?” He says it as an afterthought, and Ariadne wonders briefly if Arthur would care if she actually were seeing anyone.

“Er…” Ariadne chewed her bottom lip. Eames barks out a laugh.

“Tried that bit already with me. But _Miss Priss_ wasn’t keen on playing along. Honestly Arthur, didn’t you teach her _any_ basic in-field improvisation?”

Ariadne’s not used to feeling like the dunce in the room. She began to fume at the comment, mostly because it rang true. She was always one to design the set and step behind the curtain, never to perform on stage.

Arthur doesn’t rise to Eames’ baiting, but takes the new information in stride. Though Ariadne sees a small smirk on his lips.

“Just know if he approaches you again, you can’t turn-tail like we did today, love.” Eames warns.

“Why not?” She had been banking on being able to do exactly that. Certainly a normal girl can be justified in shirking off a guy’s advances?

“Because, if he took the time to find you it means that he can look up more than just your location the next time.” Arthur explains. “Right now we want him to have _less_ incentive on checking your background if anything. It’s much more preferable for you to be able to control what he knows rather than him having to dig for it.”

Arthur’s gaze is business-like, but apologetic.

“When girls play hard to get… makes them all the more desirable.” Eames smirks at her suggestively with a wink.

She leaves the hotel after the conversation, Arthur insisting he walk her back to her apartment. Ever chivalrous, she’s secretly glad that the months apart haven’t changed that.

“So, other than today… how have you been?”

They walk down the wide streets under the lamplight. It seems a bit surreal that after all the confusion of the day that they would come to talk about such mundane things like “How are you?”

A smile tugs on her lips. Is it supposed to feel so easy? To fall back into familiarity with him, like he had never left?

“Classes are the usual. But I’ve taken up a rather addictive pass time.”

“Oh?” A momentary confusion flits across his mind as she explains her past months working in the dreamscape.

“I should have known Miles would cave. You’ve got too much talent in the field to let it be wasted.”

She tries not to show her pleasure in his praise.

“Thanks. Cobb was right. I couldn’t go back.”

The walk to her apartment is much too short. They stand in front of the lobby entrance, Ariadne reeling a bit at how just last night Eames had greeted her here before this entire mess.

“Honestly. Don’t worry about it. It might be nothing.”

Ariadne smiles, she had started believing as much herself. Paris was a popular city if there ever was one; she just had been at the wrong place at the wrong time. Right?

“Yeah. I’m starting to think so too, I’ll let you know if anything happens.” She begins to tug at the scarf on her neck out of habit.

“I’m sorry Eames called you in a hurry…” she trails.

He shakes his head, ever professional and patient, his face illuminated by the glow of the lobby light streaming from the building.

“No. It’s a good thing. It’s my job to make sure everything is taken care of.”

“It was just his choice of words…”

_‘Like something out of a dream…’_

Her eyes flit up to Arthur voicing her concerns.

“Well. Let’s just hope he’s out of practice and used a terrible pick-up line.” He smiles weakly in her direction.

She laughs at the thought. “I’m not exactly his type.”

“You’d be surprised.” He responds smoothly.

He shoots her a look, and she can’t repress the subtle churning of her nerves.

Why was it that she wasn’t applying his words to Fischer anymore?

“Well then good night, we’ll be around.” He nods curtly, as if to stamp out any further meaning behind the conversation and he turns around to head back to the hotel.

“Thanks, good night.” She turns as well, beating herself up a bit for dazing a bit on the spot.

 _‘I thought I had more sense than that.’_ She makes her way up to her flat, drops onto her bed without changing as she kicks off her shoes, only making sure that her alarm is indeed set to wake her for class tomorrow. She pulls her totem out of her pocket and places it on her nightstand where she tips it ritually, just to hear the weight of it fall, and releases a sigh.


	3. Reasoning

**Reasoning**

The morning had started innocently enough. Sunlight streaked through the bent blinds of her flat. She had awoken an hour before her alarm was set to go off, a bit disoriented as to why she was still in her clothes from yesterday as the run-in with Fischer flooded back into her mind.

_‘I suppose its wishful thinking that it could have been a dream.’_

She sighs as she clambers out of her bed and takes the opportunity to shower before she has to leave for class.

It had been five months since she had seen or heard anything from anyone, and yet all of it had come rushing back to her all at once. It seemed like a sign, like she couldn’t engage in the dreamscape without becoming involved with this part of the job as well.

_‘Well it’s not all bad…’_

She smiles as she recalls being rather relieved to see a familiar someone in a three piece suit. Not that she had been pining for the company of a certain someone who had become a close confidant during the Fischer job. But she admits that it was a silver lining to the situation.

She had made it to class relatively Fischer-free, keeping her eyes roaming dutifully. When she reached the university after no trace of seeing the well-dressed man, she felt a bit foolish for having been paranoid at all.

Her first class was a European Art History course with Miles, it was more of a leisure class she took in order to balance out her more strenuous workload, and European art would always be something of a soft spot. Sliding into her seat in the lecture hall she spares the Professor a knowing smile before he starts the lecture.

As he drones on about the elementary differences of the Ionic, Doric, and Corinthian columns in relation to the friezes and pediments used during their respective architectural popularity, Ariadne’s focus wafts toward her latest designs in the dreamscape.

Having been inspired by a term in class, she had recently implemented the idea of trompe l'oeil using subtle color gradation along with the loop of the Penrose steps, she could allow for the mark to be manipulated into traveling _diagonally_ without knowing instead of just straight up and down. It was rather revolutionary in the prospects of a maze, adding an entirely new axis of travel.

Being so submerged in her musings, she didn’t realize that the entire hall had become silent. It took her another moment to derive the source of it.

Well-dressed and sitting in the seat next to her was Robert Fischer.

His blue eyes seem to flash with a bit of smug victory seeing her belated realization, her head swiveled on spot back to Miles who could only pause for so long before trying to recover his train of thought. Her fellow students turned inquisitively toward her but soon settled down as the Professor surged onward with his lecture.

Turning back to her neighbor, her heart resumed the betraying pounding that had possessed it the day before. This time with considerable more reason.

If he had found her here, it means he had done a little digging. Yesterday’s warning about keeping information contained rang in her ears.

“What are you doing here?” She hissed. She was far from masking her irritation; unfortunately it only caused him to widen his smile.

“I wanted a chance to get to know you properly.” He whispered back.

“I was rude yesterday, I apologize.” He seemed genuinely so, and she tries her best not to ask if she felt obliging to his apology.

“I’m not use to strangers sitting down with me spinning cheesy pick-up lines. And I thought I made it pretty clear, I’m. Not. Interested.” She tries to turn back to her notes and feign paying attention.

He looks down embarrassed.

“Again, I apologize.”

She looks to the front of the lecture hall, pretending to listen to Miles’ lecture as he ranted about the _Nike of Samothrace_. They were in Paris after all, the Louvre only a small commute away.

After much silence, Robert continued his conversation.

“Let me make it up to you. You don’t have to come, but I’ll be waiting in the Richelieu wing of the Louvre, near the staircase where _that_ is at. Saturday afternoon, at 3:00.” He gestured toward the slide that was being displayed in the lecture. He stood to leave and left the hall without a response, probably knowing enough that he wouldn’t get one from her.

Her face puckered, and she fought to sit still for the duration of the lecture.

The end of class could not have come quickly enough, as she packed her notebook with only a handful of scribbled notes from the lecture, she looked up to see her Professor staring poignantly at her, and sighed. She owed him a bit of an explanation. She waited as the rest of the lecture hall trickled out before walking down to meet him. His eyes were concerned, a pang of guilt hitting her.

She really didn’t want to cause people to worry about things that she brought into their lives. She immediately thought of Cobb.

“Is everything alright Ariadne, I couldn’t help notice…” Miles’ voice trailed off, not needing to specify.

She doesn’t know what to say. She doesn’t want to get him involved, or more importantly his son-in-law and grandchildren.

She flashes her best smile.

“Don’t worry. I’m working on it, I’m sorry class was disrupted.” She hopes it’s convincing enough.

As she leaves, Miles pulls out his phone from his desk drawer. Fingers trace a number he hasn’t called in a long while, but he would at least feel reassured that Dom’s former right hand man was aware of the situation. Not for the first time, he silently blames himself for getting his favorite pupil enveloped in all of this in the first place.

 

. . .

 

Arthur had not planned on returning to Paris any time soon, because he had no _justifiable_ reason to.

As soon as the Fischer job had been deemed a success, he did little to revel in the victory. He had simply moved on, or at least went through the motions of doing so.

He was perceptive, systematic, and efficient… and also far from oblivious that underneath it all he was tucking away a part of him he’d rather not deal with right now.

He had been in the extraction business for so long, and never had any problem keeping professional distance from his co-workers. And yet, he couldn’t exactly smother away the weeks spent tutoring a rather inquisitive, and brilliant young architect.

Maybe it was akin to how a teacher would be attached to a student; or rather it was just a natural curiosity. She was nothing that he was used to dealing with, and maybe the fact that she was so beyond his expectation is what made him gravitate to wondering how she was coping after it all.

During their time learning paradoxes and closed loops, she had always been inquisitive and challenging. She was bursting with ideas for new designs, of the like he’d never seen another Architect do. Not even Cobb.

From the very first conversation they had, she had awoken from her second shared dreaming chastising _him_ about Cobb’s problems, the man who had been his partner for years. And yet, seeing how her insight and stubbornness had probably saved them all during the Fischer job, he was starting to rethink the effectiveness of the way he handled things.

He was in Switzerland when he received the call from Eames. The only reason he had even bothered complying with the Forger’s blunt demands because it asked him to go to Paris. He allowed himself to believe that the reason was “justifiable” enough and set off on the very next flight.

As long as he was there, it seemed reasonable to check in on Ariadne as well.

_Reasonable._

It was his job to see that all details were taken care of after a job.

He had walked into the hotel suite in Paris fuming a little, having mulled over the fact that he complied with the rather terse demands of his least-favorite Forger. But what little irritation he had was soon swept from him when he saw a familiar figure poised on the bed, her face just as he remembered the only difference being her waving hair having grown a few inches longer trickling down her back. He took time to notice that she also looked particularly pale.

His mind whirred and was back into action, as he was brought up on the details of the situation.

He had tried his best to spin the situation into one that was probably just a coincidence; he needed Ariadne to feel safe and normal. Her anxiousness would be a dead giveaway if she did meet up with Fischer again.

He offered to walk her back to her apartment, and upon returning to the hotel, continued to discuss into the night with Eames as to what they had in mind for the possibility that Fischer resurfaced.

Eames takes the time to bring up Ariadne’s rather shaky handling of the situation at the bistro. And he feel’s a bit guilty. Hell, she wasn’t even supposed to go into the dreams during the Fischer job, so acting and playing identities wasn’t something he covered with her.

“I mean she’s right brilliant at what she does best,” Eames continued. “But, terrible recovery when put on the spot, she’s too honest for her own good. Doesn’t know how to keep her emotions running across her face.” Arthur nods in agreement, secretly he enjoys that quality about her.

“I get it, we’ll run through some exercises.” He begins to plan. “Are you going to help? Or just sit there and criticize?” Arthur’s patience snaps a little, it’s been a long day.

Eames smiles at seeing the meticulous man before him fray a bit at the edges.

“Of course, it’ll be fun. Just like old times, eh?”

Arthur received a call the next morning from Miles, describing Fischer’s impromptu visit in lecture.

A part of the Point Man, which he chooses pointedly to ignore, is a bit relieved for having a reason to stay in Paris.

 

. . .

 

She shouldn’t be surprised that for the third time in the past two days she sees a familiar face in front of her apartment building. Arthur is dressed “casually” a dark blue vest on top of a striped, collared shirt, his sleeves rolled up. He greets her with a small smile.

“Miles called me.”

“Seems like this isn’t just nothing.” Ariadne lets out a slow sigh of frustration.

“He wants me to meet him at the Louvre on Saturday. I’m guessing I can’t exactly stand him up?” A bit of hope quips into her inquiry.

He shakes his head.

“Unfortunately, I think it’s better you meet him rather than wait and find out how far he’s willing to go.” His face is professional, but an apologetic gleam is in his eye is there as he crosses his arms.

She nods. She didn’t expect anything otherwise.

“So what did you have in mind?” She looks to him. The Point Man, needless to ask, always had a plan.

Arthur turns to walk away from her apartment, she follows, and it seems that they’re going to the hotel to discuss further plans, probably to update Eames as well.

“I think Eames had the right idea last night.” Arthur continues, being sure to slow down and keep pace with Ariadne’s smaller strides.

“About what?” She tries to reign in the urge to tease him for admitting anything of Eames’ snarky commentary being justified.

“I think that if you begin to show more interest in him, maybe he will be more inclined to leave you alone.” There’s a slight tone that betrays somewhat of the professionalism she’s used to hearing in his voice.

She doesn’t dwell on it, knowing better than to try and dissect his emotions.

She shakes her head, she’s more sensible than that.

_‘He is concerned about everyone, not just you…’_

“Arthur… I’m not exactly good with the whole _dating scene_ to begin with… and frankly, I don’t think I can keep my composure around him without giving myself away.”

He pauses, turning his head to inspect her, an eyebrow arced.

“Well either he’s just dense enough not to take a hint, or your much more of a tease than you’re conscious of, he wouldn’t have invited you to meet again otherwise.” She doesn’t miss the amusing tug of his lips that leak across his usually impassive face.

‘ _Wasn’t expecting that.’_

She never thought herself as one to blush, but yet she finds herself tilting her face a little farther from her companion, trying to force a casual inspection of the cobbled street they’re walking along.

“But… Eames and I talked about it, and we’ve decided to give you a few pointers about how to deal with situations like this in the future.”

She opens her mouth to protest, but thinks on her actions of the other day and decides a few pointers were probably a good idea.

A brief fantasy of her being Eliza Doolittle to Arthur’s Higgins, pops into her thoughts. And she scoffs at the silly image it makes.

“So why are we going to the hotel?”

At this, Arthur straightens a bit and traces of the smile before transforms into a thin line.

“We’d figured we’d start right away. Eames has got… something… planned that supposedly will help with Saturday.” His response is vague, but Ariadne’s eyes flit to his profile. She doesn’t miss a beat.

“So you’re saying that Eames is going to teach me how to stay _out_ of a guy’s pants?” She translates.

“That’s strangely backwards from what I’m used to seeing Eames do.”

She misses Arthur’s amused smile at her comment.

They reach the front of the hotel lobby, and not long after find themselves in Eames’ suite. She takes time to note that Eames had taken the liberty of raiding the mini-bar; small bottles sit on top of the counter.

“Hello love” Eames greets from his position in the chair, toasting one of the small wine bottles in her direction.

After filling him in with what transpired in the lecture hall, Eames nods as if he had been expecting the news.

“Well, I stick with what I said last night.” The Forger begins. “Unfortunately we men are a bit one-track minded. Once we have ascertained what we have wanted, the victory pales in comparison to the chase.”

Arthur glares in his direction, he’s leaning with his arms crossed against the full length window that looks out to the view of Paris. He seems disinclined to be a part of the generalization, or at least any category that lumps him together with the Forger.

“So I should throw myself at him.” Ariadne says sarcastically, rolling her eyes at the idea of her throwing herself at anyone.

“More or less. But we’ll try to make sure you throw yourself at him with _dignity._ ” Eames smiles in conclusion.

“What Eames is trying to get at… but failing to do so is…Fischer sees you as something to pursue, and we have some strategies that may distract that…” Arthur looks to Eames in irritation, and Ariadne sees the Forger nod at the Point Man. With a sigh, Arthur unfolds himself from his position at the wall as he walks to the closet to retrieve a familiar silver briefcase.

“What do you have in mind?” Ariadne eyes the case suspiciously.

Arthur pauses from unraveling the tubes of the now opened PASIV.

“I’ve done some digging. The more involved you are in real life with Fischer will only draw attention because of his high profile, our safest bet is to sway his interest in you with more subtlety. And we’ve luckily stumbled into a steady and safe window to work in where his subconscious should be complacent and de-militarized.” Arthur doesn’t explain much further about how he came about these circumstances, and she knows he's purposefully leaving _something_ about this out. But she trusts him as he holds out the familiar needle to Eames, and then to her.

“So we’re planting an idea using the PASIV… isn’t that a bit drastic?” Her voice is skeptical.

_‘Do these guys just whip that metal briefcase out for everything?’_

“No, it’s not planting. Just… _pruning_ , just swaying his perception of you a bit.” Arthur corrects.

She takes the needle and inserts it at her wrist as she makes herself comfortable on the bed.

“You will no longer be the girl of his dreams…” Eames begins in a playfully spooky voice, placing his needle as he talks.

“-but rather the _woman of his nightmares_.”

Arthur pushes the button of the PASIV, and her eyelids droop before she can give Eames’ words more thought.

 


	4. Practice

**Practice**

Tourists and other admirers buzz around the different works of art, their voices echoing off the high ceiling of the museum.

Ariadne is wearing a little black dress, which she doesn’t remember owning, her hair is delicately pulled back in a chignon. Her eyes scan the statue in front of her: Canova’s _Psyche Revived by Cupid’s Kiss_. She studies the two figures entwined with one another in a celestial embrace, framed by Cupid’s wings.

A throat clears and her gaze is brought to her companion. His blue eyes look her up and down with a smile.

“Lovely isn’t it?” he inquires.

She contemplates answering and playing along. She decides against it, and she glares poignantly at “Fischer”.

“In the actual work, Psyche is much less endowed.” Her head gestures to the sculpture, the female’s nude figure showing a rather gratuitous amount of chest.

“A man can _dream_ can’t he?”

A chuckle ripples through her companion, as Eames breaks his impersonation.

_“Accuracy_ , now that’s what we have you for isn’t it darling? And you should wear things like this _much_ more often.” He refers to her dress with a wink, noticing her chagrin from having no choice in the matter since this was after all _his_ dream.

“So what are we doing here?” She turns to look at the parts of her subconscious that have come to mill around the wing.

“Practicing.” Eames resumed Fischer’s guise once again, his trademark smirk seemingly out of place on Robert’s face.

The click of determined steps comes to settle next to her side, and she suddenly feels much more exposed in the dress than before. Her shoulders are barely covered, her neck line exposed without her usual scarf. The fabric hugs her petite form and falls just above her knees. Though she is sure Eames could have done much worse, she still feels exposed.

“After you reverse you’re current aversion to Fischer and start to get close to him. The plan is to then have Fischer dissuaded to pursue you once he realizes your change of heart is because of who he is. Or at least what we _want_ him to believe you’re now after.” Arthur informs as he arrives next to Ariadne, dressed in what he would wear in reality; apparently Eames had only treated her to his imagination.

Arthur turns to her, she chances looking into his eyes and regrets doing so as she immediately tries to fight her face from flushing red.

‘ _Damn dress.’_

“So… care to elaborate.” She turns her head toward Eames, seeking more information while pointedly trying to avoid eye-contact with Arthur lest she embarrass herself.

“Think about it Ariadne. A powerful and wealthy bloke like Fischer, what do you think he’s used to having girls want from him?” Eames-Fischer asks.

Ariadne purses her lips as the answer clicks: “Money.”

Arthur nods.

“We’re going to set it up so if things don’t go as well with our first plan, and you _really do_ meet him on Saturday, he won’t be as inclined to get to know you.”

In theory it sounded rather impressive. She could tell after she left the previous evening, Arthur had already done a bit of planning. Her heart slumped a bit.

_‘Meaning he never believed that it was a one-time thing. He was just trying to comfort me.’_

“Well, if he isn’t turned off by the fact you’re just in it for the money. We have a more drastic means of breaking his perception of you…” Eames-Fischer smiles suggestively at Ariadne, who is debating if she wants to know.

“We’ll worry about that part if we get to it.” Arthur’s voice is clipped, as he cuts the Forger off. A glance is shared between the two of them that is not lost on Ariadne.

Her natural curiosity does not fare well when left out, she begins to open her mouth to protest when Arthur surges forward as if on cue to cut off her inquiry.

“The plan, for now, is for Eames to impersonate you in a dream with Fischer, and do some drastic hinting that you’re after his money.” As if on cue to Arthur’s dictation, Fischer-Eames now morphs into a reflection of Ariadne, who smirks suggestively.

“I don’t smile like that. So knock it off.” She says bitingly to the Forger, with a chuckle he obliges, and then shrugs.

“Just thought you were more a visual learner…” Eames resorts back to being himself for the moment.

“And then _if_ I have to meet him on Saturday, I can fulfill his hunches that I am interested in him superficially…” Ariadne concludes, still perturbed at the idea of Eames impersonating her at all. She shifts the weight of her body uncomfortably.

_‘Why is it that we have a knack for destroying any sign of positive relationships in this poor man’s life?’_

She doesn’t dwell on it. She is sympathetic, but not stupid. This could affect all of them.

“Right then, so shall we practice?” Fischer-Eames is back in place, his blue eyes having a much more devilish sparkle than the real Fischer.

She doesn’t feel like being the subject of Eames’ teasing at the moment.

“No, I can handle it, just give me a few pointers up top.” She nods her head gesturing, to the roof as if there were sleeping forms were just above.

“Come now, we shouldn’t let that pretty dress go to waste.” teases Fischer-Eames as he moves purposefully next to her, resting his hands on her waist “would you like to practice French kissing?” he whispers suggestively.

She’s about to respond scathingly for Eames to knock it off.

A gunshot is heard, reverberating through the hall, the people stop to look at them not noticing the museum crumble around them as the dream decays.

Arthur is tucking his gun back into jacket holster, not a hair out of place.

When they wake next to the PASIV, Ariadne can’t help but notice that the timer only had a few seconds left on it, and that Arthur hadn’t needed to shoot Eames at all.

 

. . .

 

The next day, Ariadne continued with life as normal, for the most part.

Not needing her to go under, Arthur and Eames were to take care of things with Fischer and report back to her on how it went.

Meanwhile, Arthur reviewed with her on how she should prepare for an encounter on Saturday if the need arose, guiding her through a performance that is meant to confirm the superficial hunches that Eames would be impressing upon Fischer’s subconscious perception of her. It shouldn’t be much work on her part but she appreciates the practice, even though she had turned down Eames’ offer in the dream.

She is fleetingly reminded of the way he had instructed her during the Fischer job, her role as student coming back to her. However, the subject matter is definitely more… _foreign_ to her.

“Remember, keep coy and suggestive. Bring up the death of Maurice, and try to pry and find out how much money Fischer is worth now… Basically, try to pretend… about “pretending” to be in it for the money.” Arthur reviews.

Ariadne nods her head. They’re in Arthur’s hotel suite, the day before Eames is due to dream-share with Fischer.

She smiles to herself, and a laugh escapes her. Arthur looks at her inquisitively.

“I’m sorry. But I can’t believe you just asked me to be _coy_ … Arthur, be realistic.” Her eyes look at him straight in the face, his tutoring momentarily derailed.

“You don’t have to be aggressive about your approach with him. It’s all about body language and instinct… how it makes someone _feel_.”

He continues to explain as he walks over from where he was standing near the window and approaches her as she stands up.

She immediately notices that he’s positioning his body much closer to her than normal.

“Keep close and in intimate contact as much as possible.” She can feel his breath along her neck; she smells his cologne, slightly citrusy, and incredibly distracting.

“Touch his arm when you want to talk, and lean in to him.”

She does as he instructs, pressing her hand gently on his shoulder in an intimate tug before she leans against his ear. She feels really silly, but more importantly she wonders if he can hear her heartbeats ricochet against her ribcage, because they seem to shudder through her in waves.

“Like this?’ Her voice is soft against the shell of his ear. And even though this is practice, there’s something so very intentional behind it.

His hand finds its way to the small of her back as he leans into her. For one frightening moment, she thinks he’s going to kiss her, but the moment passes and he leans up against her ear in response, their bodies close to touching.

“You were always a quick learner.” A smile tinges the warmth in his whisper, and ever professional, he pulls away from her, and the moment is lost.

She’s flustered but doesn’t miss the bit of a pleased smirk on his lips. He returns to his place near the window and picks up where he left off before their little demo, but in slightly higher spirits.

“Be sure to bring up money in every step of your conversations. That, in conjunction with your behavior should make him back off.” He turns to her and she is composed once again, only a tinge of pink betraying her.

“Got it.”

The two mull in silence, lost in their respective thoughts.

The silence is broken when Ariadne’s laugh escapes from her.

Arthur relaxes at the sound.

“Do I get to hear the joke?” he inquires with a raised brow.

She looks at him with her brown eyes glinting deviously.

“Nothing, I was just imagining how Eames prepares for his role of trying to get into Fischer’s pants.” She remarks off handedly.

Arthur lets a smile leak across his face, a reaction that just seems to happen without his control when he’s around her. He had always felt close to Ariadne on a rather unexpected level.

The fact that she also took pleasure in imagining Eames’ distress was just a bonus.

 

. . .

 

It’s Wednesday night when she receives the call that she had been waiting for. Eames and Arthur would have finished with the dream-sharing hopefully influencing Fischer enough for her not to meet up on Saturday.

She picked up her phone expectantly; she had stayed at her apartment and would rather have not been around imagining Eames impersonate her anyway.

“Yes?” She answers a bit breathlessly on the first ring.

“It didn’t go well.”

She feels her heart plummet into her stomach.

“How? What happened?”

She can hear Arthur pause on the other end and then release a sigh.

“Fischer’s proven he can be quite stubborn. I should have been able to see as much considering how fast he had worked to dismantle his father’s work once he had set his mind to it…”

_‘How could it have gone wrong?’_

“Apparently he wasn’t so surprised you would be after his money after all. He didn’t really see it as a problem, so that tactic is out…”

Ariadne is at a loss for what to say.

_‘How could wanting to be with someone for their money **not** be a problem when it came to a relationship?’_

“It’s my fault. I should have seen this coming…” Arthur continues.

“Fischer’s mother had left their family at a young age. She had runoff with a wealthier man early on during Maurice’s marriage. I’m guessing that Robert has since accepted that was how the way things worked after all. I misjudged the situation.”

Ariadne couldn’t help but feel like luck was continuing to work against her. She had never been in a position where wealth influenced relationships, but seeing as how Fischer probably grew up in that very environment, it made sense… in a way.

“Well. You and Eames mentioned something about a back-up plan before.” She urged, referring to the dream in the Louvre.

She could hear Arthur clear his throat on the other line.

“Yes. Well. That would require certain… concessions on your part.” his voice is a bit constrained.

They still had three days until Saturday.

“What did you have in mind?”

A long pause.

All she can hear is static on the phone for a long time.

She’s about to ask if Arthur is still on the line when he starts to speak.

“Ariadne…” His voice is tense, but soft. “How opposed are you to the idea of wedding dresses?”

 

 


	5. Charming

**Charming**

_“Ariadne…” His voice is tense, but soft. “How opposed are you to the idea of wedding dresses?”_

It takes a second for Ariadne to realize that her mouth is open, and that she resembles a gaping fish.

She can hear the faint guffawing of the Forger in the background on the other line, Arthur hasn’t spoken but a released sigh against the receiver tells her that he’s re-thinking his choice of words.

The ever-logical, methodical Arthur’s question has her reeling. She’s very tempted to grasp her bronze bishop and see if she’s dreaming.

“Stay at your place, I’ll be over to pick you up and we can discuss this over here.”

The line clicks dead, and she wants to believe that this is just Eames putting her up for some kind of joke.

 

. . .

 

A half an hour later she finds herself in her familiar spot on the bed in Eames’ hotel suite.

She had been in the room numerous times in and out without feeling self-conscious and yet suddenly she feels very aware that her faded jeans and scuffed boots stand out against the plush carpet of the five-star hotel. Or perhaps she’s suddenly extremely self-aware at how tomboyish her wardrobe is. She doesn’t even own a single dress, they don’t suit her. Certainly on occasion she’ll think to try on a dress at a store just for the heck of it but she always ends up shoving it back on the rack feeling foolish.

A _wedding_ dress? Her visual brain conjures a picture of herself in some kind of tulle powder-puff of a garment and she inwardly groans.

“Ariadne. Do you remember when I first taught you about dream-sharing? How I told you that our minds make certain associations with things that we project in our day to day relationships?” Arthur is poised gently seated in front of her.

She hazards to look up, she doesn’t see where this is going but she entertains the conversation anyway.

“You mean when things in your dream reflect how we feel about real life, right?”

“Right. So, for example, dreams about your hair and teeth falling out means you’re under stress. Dreams about holidays and big dinners are about family matters…”

She nods all of this coming back to her quite clearly, but she still doesn’t see the connection Arthur’s trying to make.

Her mind makes a leap, and she finds herself whipping her head up so fast to look at Arthur.

“I don’t care if it’s a dream…I’m. Not. Marrying. Fischer.”

For a moment she sees Arthur’s face do something she’s never seen it do before: look absolutely blank and confused.

Eames’ guffaw ricochets against her ears and she can tell by the look of amusement on Arthur’s face that she’s made the wrong conclusion. It’s the first time Eames’ presence makes itself known; he’s been reading a trashy-looking tabloid since she’s walked in. She has a hard time recovering over her outburst and makes a point to look unblinkingly at her scuffed shoes.

“Don’t worry. You’re not marrying anyone.” Arthur continues.

“Marriages. Well depending on who you are they can symbolize a lot of things in a dream. For a girl who’s a hopeless romantic it can represent some kind of ultimate goal. For a man…”

“…it pretty much means their life is over.” Eames finishes with relish while slowly flipping through the pages of the articles he’s perusing.

Arthur shoots a pointed glare in the Forger’s direction.

“It can mean life-long commitment and trust. Two things which Fischer already isn’t very inclined to at the moment. We’re just going to do a little reminding.”

Ariadne sits and digests this new bit of information. It made sense. Fischer’s father and mother’s marriage turned out to be short-lived and that in itself would give Fischer a negative impression of marital commitment. Freedom is what defined Fischer right now, and commitment, as Eames so delicately put it, already scared off enough men.

Her mind is reeling. This is the same men she teamed up to do an elaborate heist. How is it that they were all sitting here training her through romantic interaction with the opposite sex?

“Tell me again, why can’t I just meet him politely on Saturday and tell him I can’t see him anymore? I don’t think we need to go under for something like this…”

Eames coughs loudly before shooting Arthur a rather pointed glare. Ariadne follows his gaze and feels like she sees Arthur lose an inner battle before he turns away.

“This is why it can’t be that easy, love.” Eames tosses the tabloid he had been reading.

Confused, she picks it up and the headline assaults her eyes with bright red text.

“FORMER FISCHER HEIR SPOTTED WITH MYSTERIOUS LOVE INTEREST?”

Underneath it she can see a rather blurry photograph of her and Fischer at the café; he’s facing the camera oblivious while the back of her head is ambiguous but she recognizes her messy brown hair and the peek of her scarf from her collar.

For not the first time since the week started she feels like the world is very purposefully working against her. Deep down she knew the worst-case scenario could mean jeopardizing all of them yet she can’t help but be extremely frustrated with something that seems to be terribly frivolous and superficial.

“The more you meet with him in the surface world, the more attention you’ll be getting. And the last thing we need is attention.” Eames’ gaze is teasing, but also pitying of the young Architect.

“This. Is. _Ridiculous_.”

Her eyes squint in intense concentration as if she’s hoping the headline and photo will disintegrate if she tries hard enough.

Ariadne sighs. She finds herself asking the same question she’s asked for the third time now.

“What’s the plan?”

Arthur looks up at her inquisitively. He can tell that she’s taking this in stride, but he can’t help but find some things increasingly amusing.

She can be so fearless with things like inception, Limbo, and shared-dreaming but when it came to being hit-on, dating, and dresses she seemed to unravel at the seams.

Eames answers Ariadne’s hanging question during Arthur’s musings, mostly because he usually comes up with the ideas. The Point Man, as he put it, lacked imagination, and without Cobb – Eames had become more of the artist that came up with the ideas while Arthur critiqued and executed.

“You appear in a dream at what looks like the planning of a wedding, and we fill the dream with things that show him he doesn’t want this commitment.”

Eames leans in toward Ariadne and Arthur, for once seems to be business-like.

“We can plan on drawing parallels between Maurice’s failed wedding and how this may lead him to be like his father… which ties in nicely, since it reinforces him being a self-made man… my goodness Saito should be paying us more for making the message stick with the work we’re doing here.” Eames tries to express cheerily amidst her gloom.

Ariadne’s lips are pursed as she mulls over the entire proposal.

“So why can’t Eames impersonate me again?”

“Unfortunately, Eames has to play another role – Fischer’s Mother. She’ll be the main convincing force that persuades Fischer to think otherwise of ‘commitment’, of you.”

Beneath the annoyance of dealing with the situation something is eating away inside of her. Guilt. Guilt for having brought others to worry about this situation. Not that she could have handled it on her own very well. Certainly, if she had, by now… well the tabloid picture wouldn’t be so ‘mysterious’, but rather a vivid picture of her telling Fischer off indelicately.

“There’s another thing.” Arthur continues.

‘ _How can there be another thing’_

“We won’t be able to go under until after Saturday. His schedule is too tightly locked. And the Louvre’s security is not worth the gamble.” He articulates carefully.

Ariadne deflates a little in her chair, she would have to go through with their date on Saturday. She had secretly been holding out for not having to be involved at all, that Arthur would call her saying it was nothing and the first plan had gone off without a hitch.

This was not her expertise. She could build museums, cathedrals, hotels, bridges… but she’s used to being the creator, not the actor.

_‘But this isn’t just about you.’_

This is about all of them, and if she can’t do this for herself than she sure has hell can at least do this much for them in return for their efforts. Her mind flits to Arthur. Teacher or not, there’s a pang there that feels like she can’t disappoint.

_‘Breathe in, breathe out.’_

She tackles the situation with renewed vigor. Cogs start to work in Ariadne’s head.

She can handle this. It’s just another job. It’s just another puzzle.

“I’m going to need to look different on Saturday; I don’t want the media finding me again.” Her voice is informative and business-like. Both men notice the change in disposition.

Eames’ smile stretches across her face. “Now you’re catching.”

. . .

Saturday before she’s set to go to the Louvre, it feels a bit surreal. Eames showed up at her apartment holding a bag, promptly shoving her into her bedroom to change.

She’s in her master bathroom putting on her ‘disguise’. The little black dress fits snugly against the curve of her hips; her shoulders left bare, the cut flatters her petite frame.

Digging into her closet she tries to find something she can dress it down with. She puts on a short blue cardigan that caps her exposed shoulders, balancing out the tightness of the black dress, and deems it sufficient. The final accessories she thankfully owns, as she dons some black heels she hasn’t worn in ages, but having survived valiantly despite being shoved into the bottom of her closet. They already begin pinching, but Eames was insistent.

_‘I’m going to kill Eames. I’m going to a museum for God’s sake.’_

Her mind mourned the state of her feet after all those stairs.

Grabbing her usually loose and curly tresses, she twists her hair up in a rather messy but hopefully elegant way leaving some hair to frame her face.

She momentarily is thrown off by what she sees in her reflection.

She can’t find the words to really describe it. Maybe it’s attractive, or maybe it’s been a while since she hasn’t seen a ragged scarf at her neck and graphite smudges on her fingers and cheeks.

On an after-thought she adds the black-rimmed glasses that Eames also stashed in the bag. With the glasses on she feels like a rather coquettish librarian in some romance novel.

Sighing she relinquishes herself from the bedroom and steps out to face Eames’ appraisal.

He turns to look at her and wolf-whistles.

“Even with you covering yourself up my dear, you look lovely.” He smiles.

“I feel like a Librarian…” she mutters as she gestures to the glasses that feel foreign on her face, taking them off for now and putting them besides the table.

“Well then my dear, you can check me out _any time_.”

“Eames, that doesn’t even _make sense_. And why do you keep putting me in black dresses?”

She gestures to the dress, not wanting to know how he knows her size

“Black is a _classic_ look. And… Arthur fancies black, you know?”

Before she can bite back and fight the tinge of red on her cheeks, there’s a knock on the door.

“Well I’ve done my part then, time to switch off.” Eames makes for the door, not pausing to acknowledge Arthur before dashing off in an escape.

She has half the mind to chase him, and probably would have if she weren’t frightened she’d fall flat on her face wearing her heels.

Arthur’s head is over his shoulder looking after Eames as he walks into her apartment, by the time he turns around his step pauses mid-stride.

She clears her throat in slight discomfort.

“Well?”

She’s trying not to fidget.

“Well. If we’re trying so hard to make him forget about you, I feel like this is counterproductive.” He responds smoothly.

She tries not to redden from the implication, and ignore the fact that indeed there was a compliment in there.

“Do you want to review what to do?” Arthur asks, in Point Man fashion.

She nods. Since the ‘I’m after your money’ approach had failed, she would just be playing interested and keeping it light. There wasn’t really a plan, there were just guidelines.

“Don’t talk about personal things; steer clear of anything to do with the inception.”

“I know. So basically I just keep quiet but otherwise act normal.”

“Pretty much.”

“Somehow, that seams scarier than the plan of me being superficial and money-seeking.”

Since she had a bit of free reign, she already had some rather choice words for Fischer. She had to be normal, but doesn’t mean she had to be _nice_.

“We’ll be close-by, and we’ll talk about it afterwards.”

Arthur strides over to her, picking up the glasses from the table. Ariadne is suddenly aware of how close their bodies are as his breath brushes against her neck. He takes care to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear while placing the glasses on her face. She can feel the ghost of his palm on her cheek, brushing it in passing.

Arthur steps back to look at the affect. Silence.

“A lot of men find glasses a turn on.” He observes quietly.

She doesn’t know quite what to say after that. But she certainly stifles the urge to ask if he’s a part of that denomination.

 

. . .

 

The Louvre is bustling with both tourists and regulars alike, the voices and footsteps ricocheting off of the high-ceilings. The echoes reverberate across the silence that is punctured by the occasional overheard conversation. Ariadne finds herself looking up at the _Nike of Samothrace,_ with a sense of fondness. The marble, winged figure is draped and majestic, and momentarily she lets herself be immersed in examining it. She feels a small pressure on her back.

“I’m glad you came, you look lovely.”

Blue eyes lock onto hers, and she is suddenly extremely thankful that she can hide behind her fake glasses. It’s like she can be someone else completely, and she relaxes.

Fischer smiles at her warmly.

“Nice glasses.”

She scoffs, immediately remembering a part of the conversation that she wanted to bring up with him. Reaching into her purse she retrieves a small tabloid clipping and shoves it to him unceremoniously.

“I didn’t really have a choice.”

Fischer scans the headline and scowls; he looks up apologetically but unsurprised.

“I’m sorry… but then again most women don’t mind the attention.”

Ariadne doesn’t try to stifle a gag that betrays her annoyance.

“Then most of the girls you date are attention-seeking airheads.”

An eyebrow arcs over his blue eyes in surprise. Apparently he wasn’t used to being reprimanded much.

They continue their perusal of the Richelieu wing, Ariadne stopping every now and then to look, Fischer listening to her as she talks aloud out of habit. She’s here and might as well enjoy herself, and doesn’t realize that Fischer seems to be enjoying himself a bit more.

She doesn’t see his occasional lingered gaze on her profile as she studies a work, or the way that every time she replies bitingly or reprimands him that he is only more intrigued.

They are standing in front of a print of Fragonard’s _The Swing_ in a smaller gallery area. She watches the overzealous woman in the picture losing a shoe mid-swing. It’s only after the throbbing of her ankles does she realize they have spent the last three hours together.

She turns to face her companion, who she realizes with dismay, wasn’t really paying much attention to the painting at all.

For being perceptive enough to recreate dreamscapes and fabricate mazes, her mind stumbles to a blank at the male mind. And despite knowing this about herself, she finds herself losing patience and forgetting some of the more tactful suggestions rehearsed with her before today.

The last three hours she has been tart if not scathing, floating from piece to piece in the museum and prattling on endlessly about art history and yet she is forced to realize the inevitable conclusion that Robert Fischer seems more intrigued and encouraged than ever. If not more so.

It takes her another moment to realize that the set of blue eyes are getting closer and soon she can feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek.

Rather stupefied, she also belatedly realizes that the gap between them is only growing smaller.

 

…

 

Arthur didn’t quite know why he found himself walking toward the couple when he should have been next to Eames. Who, very clearly, was not suffering from the same urge to intervene as Fischer leaned in closer to Ariadne. To a relief he refused to acknowledge, she looked extremely uncomfortable.

As a Point Man he learned to find the obvious and the not so obvious.

And as he approached their mark to disrupt a plan that was, for all intents and purposes, not terribly at stake he was forced to face a rather obvious fact with himself in regards to his current Architect.

It was mid-stride when he saw Ariadne recoil abruptly from Fischer. Her jarring movement made the Point Man freeze, come to his senses and watch amusingly.

Well if he was going to have to face the obvious fact that his professionalism was being compromised for feelings he had for someone, he certainly knew how to pick them.

…

Her eyes dart back and forth trying to look anywhere except at the body enclosing on her. The lady in _The Swing_ stairs back at her, flying shoe and all as Ariadne rests her eyes on the painting. Always one to take inspiration as it hit, she reels back away from Fischer.

The quick movement throwing him off, and his eyebrows knit in confusion as he watches the girl before him reach for her heel.

“These shoes are killing me.” Ariadne rips her heels off unceremoniously, taking full time to revel in the momentary gaping fish-face that her former Mark is making. Other patrons of the Louvre also stop to gawk at her rather uncouth behavior in the establishment.

She shoves the shoes into Fischer’s arms, who almost drops them like he’s never been asked to hold something in his life.

With a twirl of chestnut hair she forges on away from the picture, her stocking-clad feet engaging in soothing relief against the marble floor. The lack of footsteps behind her is a reward as she stalks past a nearby security guard and curator who take only a moment to gawk before politely stopping her.

“Miss, I’m afraid, at the Louvre we have a policy where…” the matronly looking curator stumbles on her choice of words.

“- Well we wear shoes.” She looks at Ariadne imploringly as if the lilt of her words questions her sanity.

The sound of one of her heels clatters to the floor behind her.

Ariadne celebrates a small victory, imagining the gaping Fischer not ten feet away from her and the curator.

She’s had enough of trying to puzzle out the man, and regards the curator with more heat than she deserves.

“You have a bunch of signs saying no photography and no chewing gum, point to a sign that says I can’t take these things off and then come find me.”

And the clatter of her other heel hits the floor.

 

...

 

She is kindly being escorted down the stairs of the wing where she entered next to the _Nike of Samothrace_ , a rather amused security officer trudging alongside her. Ariadne knows she could have handled the situation with better tact. But she was sensible enough to realize when she was good at things. And clearly dating, men, and love wasn’t one of them. If acting irritable and unpleasant didn’t scare off men nowadays she certainly hoped being crazy would.

She was wrong.

“Ariadne!” Fischer’s voice booms after her. She turns to look up at his form at the top of the staircase. His hair is in a bit of disarray and he breathes heavily from having to chase her.

He recomposes himself and just in time she sees him toss one of her black heels toward her. She catches it smoothly and waits expectantly for its partner.

“I’m holding on to this one if you don’t mind.”

Her eyes flash at him quizzically.

“It might come in handy the next time I lose track of you.”

 

. . .

 

Driving away from the Louvre, Robert Fischer looked at the shoe in his hand with a rather thoughtful look as he rode in the back of his town car. Upon further inspection the black heel looked rather battered and ill taken care of. And he found his smile quirk further up at the corners of his mouth.

Ariadne was… well, she was _exceptionally different._

And there was something, so desperately familiar about her. He remembers seeing her at the café, quickly leaving at the table to meet with some man. Some boyfriend perhaps? But she let slip that it wasn’t the case, her expressions honestly aghast.

_Ragged, and seedy looking Brit. Didn’t seem like her type. Not that it really mattered to him, even if she was involved with someone._

_What is it that his father told him when he took on a string of young lovers after his mother?_

_‘All’s fair in love and war…it’s all the same in bed.’_

_Crassly put._

But Robert never balked against asserting what he wanted, the confidence of his new promising company swelling him to surer heights.

He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. It wasn’t just that she was engaging, and thoroughly surprising and intelligent. There was something almost desperately cathartic about how she made him feel safe. Like the world would crumble around him and he was lost in a desolate place with no hope of escape and then… he recalls glimmers of something so familiar and vivid.

_A howling storm, her concerned then desperately relieved face as she sees him. Telling him words of encouragement and safety._

He had to figure it out. He mused with the idea of fate and good fortunes.

Is this was all the fuss about? True love? All that infectious rom-com fodder of “meant to be’s” and “destinies.”

Ariadne was this intricate puzzle. This maze of intrigue and complexity. Staring out the window as the city whirled by, Robert Fischer found that he didn’t mind being lost in her at all.

 

…

 

Sitting in Eames’ suite Ariadne lies mortified on a chair, as she listens to the guffaw of the British forger who has upon her return accused her of being too good at everything, even when she apparently was trying to do the _very opposite_.

“I don’t know what happened,” she recounts a bit irritably, still holding her partner-less shoe in dangling from her right hand.

Arthur stands against the window next to her arms crossed, and not hiding a pleasantly amused expression as well. The laughter subsides from across the suite and Eames composes himself with a long sigh.

“Oh, my dear, I think you’re too charming for your own damn good.”

“ Ch- **_wait_** – charming?!” pent up anger bubbles into her stuttering dialog as she reels forward in her chair, clearly releasing some of the frustration from her dismal performance of the day.

She’s had quite enough.

“I was acting irritable and mean all day, and when he tried to kiss me I… well… . I guess **_crazy_** is the new charming. I suppose we should just start telling _every_ girl to start acting like nutcase if they want to get with a guy.” She slouches in defeat, but having enough energy to throw her black pump at the Brit’s face.

The forger catches it in his hand swiftly.

“Well, Cinderella, it seems you’ve finally caught on. For God’s sake most women are. Crazy that is.”

Ariadne’s mood, to no surprise, does not improve.

It’s the swift movement of Arthur that catches her attention as he repositions himself from his place at the window to in front of her.

“Well, regardless of the…events… of the day, we still have a job to do.”

Arthur bends onto one knee in front of her, and Ariadne’s eyebrows knit in confusion.

“I arranged an appointment at a bridal store, we’ll be checking out the interior of the place so you can get a good idea when you create the dream layout.”

And as if she couldn’t take enough crazy for one day, she watches as the ever purposeful Point man takes her left hand and slides a ring on her finger.

 


	6. Research

**Research**

Despite what Eames may lead anyone to believe, Arthur’s “lack of imagination” did not equate him to be some efficiency-driven automaton void of emotion. Admittedly, beyond his job he could not claim to have many extraneous relations for obvious reasons of safety.

_No one around, no one gets hurt._

He’d watch Cobb learn his lesson the hard way. So upon doing background checks on Fischer’s latest exploits outside of the conference room when they first started tackling the situation, he had to remind himself to remain as impartial as possible.

Something, for the first time, he was struggling a great deal with.

When planning how to dissuade Fischer’s pursuit before Ariadne’s date at the Louvre, Arthur had been unsurprised that his background research led him to a high-end dream den in the south of Paris. Eames and Arthur had walked into Reverie during off-hours midday to talk to Vince, the owner of the establishment.

He was a purposefully unassuming man, and very hospitable, but had the beady eyes of someone who saw much and pretended he didn’t. Which made him very successful as the owner of this particular speakeasy-like dream den. The place was fully lit during the day, breaking the hypnotic intrigue of dark, candle-lit spaces that usually provided excellent refuge for clandestine encounters.

Arthur’s hunch proved to be correct about Vince. With some persuading over several drinks, Vince boasted of cataloguing his patron’s dreams –strictly for professional, and protective use _of course_ \- and that a certain Robert Fischer had _indeed_ visited his establishment, recently quite often.

With further coaxing, and a few more glasses, Vince led them to a back room that looked a bit like the shabby office of a seedy surveillance studio. With a few taps on a keyboard and some file searching, Arthur and Eames were looking into Fischer’s latest excursion under Reverie’s PASIV.

The recording on the screen came in flickers and indistinct noises going in and out, as if viewing through static or listening underwater. Glimpses and fragmented clips of lipstick smiles and tinkering laughter hinted at female companionship.

But as Arthur continues to watch he feels himself unnecessarily begin to clench his pen a bit tighter and the writing, usually meticulous, is savage and indiscernible on his notepad.

Even through the static and muffling, Fischer’s dreaming is mostly about Ariadne. But in his dreams she is coquettish and the epitome of the blushing virgin… and _very_ obliging to Robert’s advances.

There’s a particular long stretch of a sequence that flickers uninterrupted, where the dream places Fischer and Ariadne in a lavish hotel suite. Fischer’s Ariadne is exquisitely dressed in something red and slinky and her brown hair is delightfully mussed from a night out. Her inebriated giggles are bubbling from her lips, and the strap of her dress is falling off her shoulder. He sees hands on her, Fischer’s hands, one on her knee another brushing the bottom of her dress up her thigh. And looking at Ariadne’s flushed face and glassy eyes grow closer to the screen… the recording becomes fuzzy.

Arthur realizes that he can’t feel the hand that’s gripping the pen anymore. And he hadn’t taken any notes for a while, an angry, ripped and black smear marking the page where his pen had stopped.

The rest of the recording is mostly sound.

The rustling of fabric, indiscreet noises of bed sheets, zippers, and cufflinks hitting the nightstand… Ariadne’s occasional sigh or catch in breath, a breathy whisper of a name … _‘Robert’_ … and then, **_mercifully_** _,_ it’s over and the rest is static before the screen bleeds black.

“Fuck.” Eames lets out a slow sigh.

Arthur almost jumps, forgetting Eames was watching the recording with him.

The Point Man closes his notepad shut and stands up in an abrupt gesture, his hand going to straighten his tie, a nervous tick when he’s restless.

He’s seeing red, and he needs to calm down. Quickly.

But flashes of what he’s seen lay tantalizing and haunting in his memories. And he’s far from impartial anymore.

Eames regards him, either not realizing Arthur’s reaction or tactfully choosing not to mention anything about it.

Vince pops in to check on them.

“Would you like to see the rest of them?” He asks, still obligingly buzzed and in good spirits.

Arthur’s head snaps to look at the owner.

“The… _rest_?”

“ _Yea_ , _yea_ … you’d think he’d change it up a bit… Most men do. But all the same girl… she’s _sweet_ and all, not my type… but ya know… to each ‘is own.” He gesticulates a little woozily, missing Arthur’s scathing looks.

Arthur’s jaw clenches, and Eames stands up to step into the conversation.

“Ah, _no_ …. my good man. I think we’ve seen _all_ we need. As always your discretion is _most_ appreciated.” Eames shoves a roll of bills in the man’s hands and the next thing Arthur realizes is that they’re in the elevator on their way down.

The walk back to the hotel is silent, but upon entering the room Eames breaks the silence.

“It’s obsessive. It’s infatuation to the utmost.” He begins to help himself to the contents of the mini-bar.

“Do you think he remembers something from the job?” Arthur asks, composing his thoughts. His voice clipped to hide the fact that his temper is still simmering.

“Doubtful. We did well. Truly, I believe so… but I think there are things that he will be drawn to like déjà vu… glimmers of something real that he’s remembering from his subconscious.” Eames reasons thoughtfully, before continuing.

“Look, I did a job in Manhattan a few months ago... involved extraction in the setting of seafood restaurant… two weeks after, the job the mark bought the restaurant. Had _nothing_ to do with what the job was about… mind you. But sometimes, I’ve seen subtleties that do affect real life choices after all is said and done.”

A silence permeates afterward, and then Arthur is all business again and sits down to work out a plan in earnest.

“It should be pretty easy to take him under when he visits Reverie that regularly. Hopefully you can do what your _supposed_ to be the best at and this ends without trouble.”

Eames regards him. He looks like he wants to say something, but chooses not to and just nods once while tipping his drink back.

“We don’t tell Ariadne about the recordings.” Arthur says quietly.

Eames takes another swig, and empty clink of ice shifting.

“Agreed.”

They both don’t speak. But have the same hunch that this isn’t something to be solved neatly and tidily.

It was his job. Cleaning up messes. Tying up loose ends. But he was having an unexpectedly difficult time keeping impartial when his heart was still calming and the grip on his pen was still unnaturally tight.

When the first attempt at going under was unsuccessful. It does nothing for the Point man’s nerves.

 

. . .

 

The ring Arthur’s slipped onto her finger is simple, elegant and classically cut.

 _Very Arthur_.

Foggy terms of cushion cuts and carats swim groggily through her brain, terms she had long decided useless in favor of architectural jargon.

It takes Ariadne a moment to realize that the man in question is already at the desk packing sheets of notes into organized piles and planning their next move.

Looking up at Eames, she sees that he’s been watching her reaction with a very obvious twinkle of amusement. She hurriedly shoves the offending hand in her pocket, secretly chastising herself for what Eames certainly observed as her acting like some moony-eyed schoolgirl over a promise ring.

She clears her throat and sees Arthur’s back to her, methodically checking something on his laptop and phone.

_This is just another job._

_This is just another job, and this is just another part._

_Get a hold of yourself, Ariadne._

_You materialize goddamn cathedrals… putting on a chick-flick and learning to act like a powder-puffed ass clown should be easy._

Even after she’s ready to focus and work, Ariadne has to mentally stop herself from thinking whether the Point man thought of her while picking the ring out.

“… Fischer visits Reverie regularly… shouldn’t be a problem to go under, straightforward and simple like last time…”

Eames’ clipped and ineffectual voice brings Ariadne back to the conversation she’d been tuning out in the hotel room.

“Reverie?” She asks, the name sounds familiar. She remembers one of her classmates, trying to pull her away from a project to have a night on the town at the most exclusive spot in Paris.

“That rooftop lounge on the south of the city?”

Arthur turns an amused look at Ariadne.

“You’ve heard of it?”

“Yea, I heard a drink there costs half our tuition. But great bones. Interior work is supposed to have some beautiful beams imported from South America.”

“Figures you’d find the selling point of a bar to be _wood beams_.” Eames rolls his eyes theatrically, and takes another measured sip from his drink.

Arthur smiles to himself, as if entertaining a rather secret joke before answering.

“It also happens to be a front for heavy-pocketed elites to use dream sharing for… _recreational_ entertainment.”

Ariadne’s mind comes to a halt.

_“What?”_

Eames wags a playfully chastising finger at her direction.

“Come on now... You’ve seen Yusuf’s place. You can’t be all that surprised. Dream dens pop up all over the place. You’re a dream addict yourself, you shouldn’t be so judgmental. ”

Before rising up to the forger’s accusation, Ariadne raises her hands and closes her eyes, trying to wrap her head around this latest piece of information.

“So… Fischer, goes to a dream den… _regularly_ … and what…” Ariadne fights a blush at the thought. “…Has _hanky-panky_ with _dream hookers_ … or _something_.”

She has to give a rather pointed look at Eames who seems to be about to burst at the word “hanky-panky”. But Arthur’s look is serious, as he rolls up his sleeves before answering her question.

“Well, companionship and escort services are certainly prevalent in the elite lifestyle of the surface world. You can see the appeal. It’s kind of perfect for the dreamscape. All the exploration and intrigue; zero the risk. PASIV’s have become just another medium to have recreational fun with little to no consequence.”

Eames settles himself to lean forward in his chair, picking up where Arthur leaves off.

“Our young Robert’s already been trained against extraction. The possibilities and reckless appeal of the dreamscapes aren’t just for those who go _gaga_ over _South American wood beams_.” Eames finishes cheekily.

“So that’s how you were able to go under last time, he already knows he's dreaming he just doesn't know you're crashing the party.” She confirms, not rising to Eames’ baiting.

“Exactly, Reverie’s owner is… an _acquaintance_ … of Yusuf’s.” Arthur, ever professional, edits gracefully.

“So…” Ariadne starts.

“So the next time we go under, you’ll be joining us at Reverie and… you know the rest.” Eames waves his hand inconsequentially.

_‘The rest’ being a rather stupid, love-sodden version of herself interested in a quickie wedding and lots of money.’_

Ariadne used to mildly wonder if she was missing out in a love life. Recent events seemed to be a crash-course to make up for it. She decided she wasn’t missing out on much.

 

. . .

 

Ariadne is a bit surprised that Eames is the one taking her to the bridal shop. Her arm is looped in his begrudgingly and she’s wearing a blue pea coat she doesn’t remember owning but somehow Eames magically fished from the depths of her closet. Glasses on again, because the less she feels like herself the easier it is to be someone else. And maybe easing into another person’s shoes… a person who is familiar with a man on her arm isn’t such a scary thought anymore. Even if it is Eames.

They’re posing as a browsing, freshly engaged couple just popping in to do some cursory dress shopping. Eames is talking animatedly with the complimentary wine in hand to the lady who’s running the floor, doing most of the legwork for their relationship at the moment.

The forger likely inventing some wild and outrageously romantic take about how they first met, giving Ariadne plenty of time to scout the shop’s interior.

The first thought as she observes the brightly lit and comfortable surroundings, is that she is inside a rather large chiffon cake. She takes a cautious sip of the chardonnay from her glass before inspecting further. The décor is tastefully spare, with cut flowers in abstract vases and several mirrors and cream-colored divans and furniture.

But the vast majority of the space is dedicated to the gowns. Ariadne tries to digest the sheer volume of tulle, silk, and organza that is populating the space. And she can’t quite wrap her head around it.

She reaches her hand out to touch a gown on the hanger, as if trying to learn their secret spell by touch.

An arm rests on her hip and Eames places a chaste kiss on the top of her head while she continues to inspect the garment.

“I don’t get it.” She admits in a puzzled whisper.

“What about it.”

“The appeal of all… _this,_ it just seems… really _silly_.” Ariadne waggles her fingers at the dress as if to dispel the charm it’s cast on the other shoppers who have dewy-eyed looks as they browse the gowns.

Eames chuckles and steers her to another section of the shop to give her another angle, under the guise of showing her a dress across the floor.

“ _Come now.._. Little Ari, never grew up dreaming of becoming a bride to be? You can’t tell me at age five you were dreaming of _crown molding_ and _marble staircases_.” Eames teases.

“No. Of course I thought about it.” She admits, her brows furrowing in trying to puzzle it out.

“I guess as I grew up, with school, and all the things I wanted to do, everything I wanted to create and accomplish… walking down the aisle in some cupcake ball gown just didn’t seem all that important.” She reasons, while prodding at a particularly offensive tulle number that dominates a good half of the current rack she’s perusing.

She downs the remainder of her chardonnay and grabs Eames’ glass, missing an intrigued quirk of his brow.

“We deal with dreamscapes. Use some of that imagination you got. Everything is contextual… about perception.” He gestures vaguely to the shop floor.

“Re-creating these moments is all about the _feel_ of them. What’s a girl _feeling_ when she comes into the shop?”

Ariadne looks around the shop again. She starts to see it. The partial flush from her second glass of chardonnay is probably helping cast the illusion a bit.

A woman caressing the bottom of a gown and running the fabric between her fingers admiringly… A man watching his fiancé from the couch as she stops to stare at one particular dress... A girl her age in a lace backed gown looking at her reflection admiringly.

It’s dippy, and silly, but there’s a begrudging respect she admits to the picture it paints.

They are idiots. But they look like the _happiest_ idiots in the world.

“I guess… I never really thought I’d find a guy I’d want to act like an idiot for. Or one… who’d be an idiot for me.” She admits.

He looks at her a bit too understandingly and she challenges him to make a scathing remark but he raises his hands in mock retreat.

“Fair enough.” He acquiesces with only a fraction of his usual jesting. “But you sell yourself too short, just look at the pickle were in, eh?” Raising his brows suggestively.

Figures that she’d spend years of her life wondering what she could do to compete with the tall and curvy girls she sees around Paris, shrugging it off as something she just didn’t need or want.

The flowery chardonnay sat in her belly like truth serum. Some part of her _did_ want that, not the soppy version she thought it had to be like… but she shouldn’t be so dismissive about it just because she wasn’t willing to admit that some part of her… did want that, in her own way.

She drains Eames’ glass in a final mouthful and shoves it into his hands as she walks out.

“I think I have enough to go on.” She mumbles back, feeling fueled by the flush in her cheeks.

Eames deposits the empty glasses on table with a vase and follows her out of the shop without saying a word.

 

 . . . 

 

The next day passes in a lull as she attends classes during the day and works on the bridal shop at night in her apartment with the PASIV. She’s got two days to get it just right, a single shop is nothing after entire city blocks and hotels, but she gives it her full attention like she gives everything she creates.

It’s Saturday morning and she doesn’t have class as she keys into Eames’ hotel suite, which they had been using to meet. She’s early, and Eames is out, likely running some errands. She sets the PASIV on the bed and figures she’ll put some finishing touches on before she shows the team the final layout.

She places the needle to her vein pushes the button and she opens her eyes to see everything just as she left it.

The shop is airy and filled with natural light from the large front windows. Large cherry trees just outside are flecking the pavement with pink petals, and providing the perfect backdrop for the little shop. Most of the shop closely resembles the one she was in with Eames, but a layout of her own design with lots of false doors behind walls and the back area. Panels of the back wall are full-length mirrors, with carefully concealed handles for them to manipulate the angles of space and alter paths on the fly if need be.

_‘Always have a backup plan’_

She remembers from early lessons with Arthur.

But despite the carefully concealed layout, which was something she always had a knack for, the rest of the set dressing is some of her best work. She touches the waxy petals of the peony bouquet in a vase and they have just the right weight and softness, and just the hint of fragrance.

_‘Classy not cloying.’_

She nods as she inspects.

There’s a subtle hinted aroma of freshly popped champagne, and the light filters in the angles from the skylights… _just_ … right. Even the gowns, after an embarrassing amount of research on styles and fabrics lay convincingly elegant in the filtered sunlight.

She really has outdone herself. And a part of her begrudgingly admits that it was nice to design something so feminine and charming for a change.

“Nicely done.” A familiar voice of approval comes from her right.

Arthur is impeccably dressed, to no surprise, and looks at home in the expensive shop.

He gives her a warm smile, and she’s starting to feel like she’s already had a glass of complimentary chardonnay.

“Thanks.”

He walks around to inspect, and she lets him roam as she continues to tweak a few details.

“I admit, I thought this kind of work was going to be a bit out of your wheelhouse.” He sits down on one of the plush divan with his hands folded forward on his knees.

She turns away from the rack she was inspecting, and gives him a challenging look.

“And?’

“And, serves me right for underestimating you.” He concedes with a smile.

She feigns smugness and sits next to him, secretly pleased at his approval.

“Before Eames gets here and you can show us the layout, I’d thought we’d practice a bit more about what you’ll actually be doing once we’re under.” His tone is light, but Ariadne senses the atmosphere shift a bit.

“You mean when I’m with Fischer.” She confirms. He nods, and the silence is awkward for a beat.

“First off… if you’re engaged to a man you don’t sit about three feet away.” He notes, not unkindly, but Ariadne hears the smile in his voice indicating he’s enjoying this.

She gives him a challenging look and scoots close enough for him to put an arm around her waist casually, which she secretly congratulates herself from not reacting to his touch.

“Second, you can’t keep calling him by his surname. Obvious lack of intimacy.” Arthur points out.

“Right…. _Robert_ , then.” She obliges.

She feels Arthur’s body tense for a moment and looks at him.

 

 …

 

_‘Robert…’_

Arthur is remembering a haunting refrain from a seedy recording in Reverie, and flinches.

She’s looking at him quizzically and he recovers, the professional back in place.

“Third,” he continues, “ Intimacy. We went over this before. But in this case, you’re in love with the man. You’ll have to be convincing.” He speaks the words a bit harshly, and he’s rationalized that it’s a valid argument to stress. But a part of him is being selfish and childish now. And he knows it.

He sees her eyes widen slightly before looking at him more fiercely; a challenge. She was always good at those, he notes. He can see the cogs clicking furiously behind her eyes, the same way they did when he taught her paradoxical architecture.

He’s looking at her, and thinking of the last time they were on a couch together in a dream, and he sees that she’s thinking about it to.

“Quick. Give me a kiss.” He whispers.

Her eyes flutter, and he’s wondering whether he’s taken it too far… when he feels her hand on his chest and she’s looking down shyly, then looks up unapologetically as she moves in closer to his mouth.

She’s close enough just to graze his lips, and he’s using all his concentration to not move forward to close the excruciatingly tantalizing gap and just as he thinks he can’t betray his instinct any longer… she moves her lips to the side and kisses the corner of his mouth slowly and gently… and _agonizingly_ tender.

And he’s trying to remember when his breathing became erratic. And he’s trying to fight the itch to fuss with the knot of his tie as he watches her move back to her seated position. Her eyes stay locked on his. Her face is flushed, but she triumphantly quirks an inquiring brow at him with an enigmatic smile.

 _Well played._ He notes.

 

. . .

 

  _His move._

This is just a game. A challenge, a puzzle. While designing this bridal shop something has clicked, and Ariadne finds that pretending with Arthur is not that hard at all.

_‘It’s all contextual, perception… how does it make you **feel**?’_

Her heart is pounding, and there’s something very satisfying about being able make the unflappable Arthur look momentarily disoriented. But the confusion in his gaze clears and takes on a purposeful glint as he moves closer toward her.

And he’s placing a hand at her waist and bringing her close to whisper something in her ear.

“So which dress are you going to try on first?” His voice is smug but teasing, and she wonders if he’s slipped into acting more like Fischer purposefully.

She’s thrown for a moment. But then she drapes her arms around his neck.

She’s not Ariadne. She’s some idiot who’s soppy and in love with a man with full pockets. And her answer comes easily as she feigns a thoughtful expression then looks up at him.

“It’s your wedding too.” She measures just the right amount of indecision and tenderness into her voice as she plays with his tie.

“So why don’t you pick one?”

And she wonders for a moment if it was the right thing to act and say. Just like she puzzled over getting the peonies and lighting just right in the shop.

And Arthur is leaning forward and resting his forehead on hers. And he’s warm and close.

“Nicely done.”

 

…

 

Eames walks into his hotel room with a garment bag slung over his shoulder, unsurprised to find that he’s the latest party to arrive to his own suite.

It seems like the other two have just woken up from being under. As they take out the needles in their arms and are very pointedly not looking at one another.

Arthur goes to the bathroom, and Eames suppresses a chuckle as he hears the splash of water from the sink. Ariadne is flushed and her hand is resting on her mouth lost in thought.

When Arthur comes back, Eames notes that a bit of the man’s slicked back hair is wet around the edges of his scalp from splashing water on his face, and the forger generously concedes to say nothing.

“What’s in the bag?” Ariadne looks at the garment bag Eames drapes across the bed next to the PASIV.

“Ah, something I picked up for you for our outing tonight.” He says business-like as he settles into an armchair.

“We’re going out?” Ariadne inquires. Looking first to him then to Arthur for confirmation.

“Yea, you’re going to have to get familiar with Reverie before we go there to put Fischer under.” Arthur informs as he’s rolling up his sleeves and fiddling with the PASIV.

Ariadne turns to give a scathing look at the garment bag.

“Don’t look at it like that…. You’re a hard-working girl, you deserve a night out. It’ll be fun.” Eames settles his arms behind his head comfortably, regarding the two of his teammates being a bit stiffer than normal.

“A couple of drinks and that wood you fancy so much… should be lots of fun.” He winks, and glances to see Ariadne blush at his comment.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Re-editing and Re-posting from my abandoned FF.net account. The first four chapters I wrote a few years back, and I've done what I can to tweak them but will mostly be focusing on chapter five onwards.


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